


The Night Before

by iamfitzwilliamdarcy



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 07:38:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4011337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamfitzwilliamdarcy/pseuds/iamfitzwilliamdarcy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of a fight, Mr. Pevensie spends his last night at home trying to fix his family. Pre-LWW</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night Before

“I just don’t know what to do anymore, Jonathan. I’m at my wit’s end, and nothing seems to be getting through to Edmund.” 

Helen was pacing the kitchen, near tears, though Jonathan thought those had more to do with him leaving tomorrow than their son, who had been surly and cranky and not at all the boy they’d known when he first went to school. Today, he and Peter had gotten into a fight; well, really, Peter had said something and Edmund had hit him and then said some nasty things to Helen when she’d intervened. 

He caught Helen mid-step and wrapped her up in his arms. “Don’t worry, dear,” he said, kissing her cheek. “We’ll sort this out.”

“These days, you’re the only one he seems to actually like and not just tolerate,” she said. Then she sighed and shook her head. “It’s silly and petty, but I can’t help but feel a little jealous.”

 “It’s not silly at all,” he said. “I keep wondering what I did wrong, where I went wrong. You know, what’s the root cause of all this. I can’t stop myself thinking about it.”

Helen nodded against his chest. “Like William Smith down the street,” she said. “I worry he’s going to turn out like that.” 

William Smith had been arrested nearly a year ago for all sorts of armed robbery crimes; it’d been the talk of the community for a while. How could such a nice boy from such a nice family go so wrong? The neighbors had clucked their tongues, speculating. The mother coddled him too much, the father wasn’t home enough. Or sometimes, it was that the father disciplined too much or was home too much or the mother, with five other kids clinging to her skirts, didn’t have the time for him. No one knew, of course, not really. Sometimes there are just bad eggs, Mr. Evans from next door had said to Jonathan one day, shaking his head.

“Edmund won’t turn out like that,” Jonathan said firmly. Not if he had anything to do with it. 

“How do we fix it, then?” Helen asked, pulling away to stare up at him. “How do we help him?”

Jonathan didn’t have an answer; he pulled her close again and held her until she batted at him and said at this rate, they’d be eating dinner after the children had gone to sleep.

*************

 Now shooed from the kitchen, he ended up outside the room Edmund and Peter shared, wondering what to do next. He had no answers, still, but he had to do something to help the problem before it got worse. It’d be nice if he had more time, he thought, staring at the door, but war stole time from everyone, so it was now, or let the wounds continue to fester until much later. After a minute, he knocked on the door. “Edmund, may I come in?”

“No use, Dad.” Peter was coming up the hallway with Lucy, her little and in his, sounding lofty in that way of his that meant he probably didn’t realize he was. “He’s _sulking_ in there. Won’t talk to anyone.”

“I’ll thank you to mind your own business, sir,” Jonathan said, lightly. “How about you two keep on your way. Heading to the park?” Peter opened his mouth to confirm, but Lucy’s vigorous nod and resounding “yes” beat him to it.

 “Have fun,” he said, giving his sweet Lu a smile and taking a moment to look over Peter. He didn’t look any worse for wear, probably wasn’t even going to have a bruise.

Once they were down the hall and on the stairs, Jonathan knocked again. “Edmund,” he called. “I’m coming in.”

He opened the door and closed it again behind him, then took a moment, squinting at Edmund’s bed, to determine which lump exactly was his son.

“I still have half a mind to take you over my knee, you know,” he said, but mildly, almost conversationally. He’d never raised a hand to any of his kids, and they knew it; besides, he was quite sure Edmund had had enough of sternness. It didn’t seem to be getting them anywhere. Edmund didn’t bite though; he just burrowed deeper and mumbled something that sounded like “I don’t care.”

“Oh, Eddie, boy, don’t be like,” Jonathan said and, sighing, sat down on the edge of the bed. He moved his hand to rest on what he guessed was Edmund’s head. “I’m not mad at you.”

“I don’t care,” Edmund repeated louder. He shuffled around a bit and Jonathan’s hand shifted as Edmund’s angry red face popped out from under the blanket. He glared at Jonathan and added, “I hate you.” 

The words were meant to hurt, and they stung Jonathan, but it hurt even more to see Edmund like this. Jonathan thought he’d never seen a lonelier or angrier boy, someone so defensive as to push people away before they could even get close.

Jonathan was a strong, patient man, though. He just settled his hand atop his son’s head again. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “But I’m leaving tomorrow, and I’d like to talk with you anyway. Would that be alright?”

Edmund didn’t answer, but he didn’t shift away from Jonathan’s hand either. He took that as a good sign and continued. “I don’t want to go away, you know. It has nothing to do with you. It’s just, with the war, I have to.”

“William Richardson’s father isn’t leaving,” Edmund said, belligerently, as if he’d caught Jonathan in lie.

Jonathan sighed and smoothed Edmund’s hair. “I don’t know William Richardson or his father,” he said. “But there are cases where men are not able to go. You know I’m not such a case." 

“We could pretend you are,” Edmund said, eyes lighting up so that for a moment he was the child he’d once been. “We could--,” but he stopped short when he saw Jonathan shaking his head, eyes closed off and angry once more.

“That’s not a decent thing to do, Edmund, and I won’t do something like that.”

“That’s what Peter said,” Edmund told him, frowning and sulky again.

“Is that why you hit him?”

 Edmund pressed his lips together and looked away. He didn’t respond, but it was enough of an answer. They sat in silence for a bit, while Jonathan tried to figure out the best thing to say. He hadn’t had any success when Edmund suddenly buried himself into Jonathan’s side. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around his son.

Just last week, when on Edmund’s birthday, Jonathan had exclaimed over how big Edmund was getting—ten years old now, and getting taller to boot (Edmund had beamed at him, an aberration from his normal attitude). Now, as Jonathan held him, he was incredibly aware of how small his son was; he still perfectly into his side, just as he had as a toddler.

It took Jonathan another minute to realize Edmund was crying. He cried silently, as if practiced in hiding, as if he’d cried so frequently in places he couldn’t cry openly. Jonathan ached at the thought, and pulled his son closer, dropping a kiss into his hair. 

He held Edmund long after his son had fallen asleep, running a hand through his hair, keeping him close. His face was red and puffy, and dried tear tracks stained his cheeks. His fists were clenched, jaw too, and he didn’t look relaxed, even in sleep.

It was sometime later, when Peter returned, that Jonathan moved. He indicated to Peter to be quiet, then shifted Edmund, extracted himself, and resettled his son so that he was comfortable under the blankets.

“Can we talk?” he asked Peter, whispering. Peter gave him a look, which was understandable as it was only just after seven and not even Lucy went to bed that early, but he nodded and followed Jonathan out into the hallway. 

It took him a moment to gather his thoughts into what he wanted to ask, but Peter waited patiently, expectant. Finally, Jonathan said, haltingly, choosing his words carefully, “Do you—do you see much of Edmund? When you two are at school I mean?”

Peter shifted uncomfortably. “Not much,” he admitted. “We’re in different years and all.”

“Does he seem like he has any friends?” Jonathan pressed.

Peter actually had to pause and consider, and that was answer enough for Jonathan, though Peter gave a real answer anyway. “I—you know, I don’t think so. I see him sometimes, with a group of boys, but they never seem like they actually like each other. And mostly I just see him alone.”

Jonathan rubbed a hand over his face, and Peter, after a small hesitation, added, “Dad, you know, sometimes, he—well, he picks on some of the younger kids. He’s mean, a bully.” 

“I’ve gotten the reports,” Jonathan said. And he and Helen had, letters mostly, the occasional telephone call—bullying, not doing his work, involved in altercations, grades slipping, and didn’t you say, Mr. Pevensie, that he was ready to enter this school a year early? It’d been heavily implied that last time Jonathan had spoken with the school that unless Edmund’s behavior changed, he’d be expelled.

Maybe the school was right, and they should have waited another year, but Emdund was just so smart and had been so eager to go to school, to _Peter’s_ school. They had thought he’d be fine, that’d he’d excel even.

Jonathan shook his head, clearing his thoughts, and spoke again. “Peter, can you do me a favor? Will you keep an eye on him this year?” He held up his hand, stopping Peter’s response, and continued. “I’m not asking you to be friends with him. I know it’s not fair of me, when you two aren’t getting along, but he is your brother.”

“I’ll try, Dad,” Peter said. “Promise.” 

Jonathan gave him a weak smile. “Thank you. You’re a good brother, Peter Pevensie.”

Peter flushed, and Jonathan wrapped an arm around him. “Let’s see if your mother needs help with dinner.”

 ************* 

Still, as he left the next day, he wasn’t sure how much he’d actually managed to fix. Edmund had woken in time for dinner the night before, and though he’d made an appearance and even offered a (mumbled and reluctant) apology to Peter, he was sullen and quiet.

He hadn’t shied away from Jonathan’s hug in the morning either, but he didn’t return it and his face was blank, the way it got when he was getting preemptively defensive. So he’d hugged Lucy and Susan, kissed Helen, and ignored Peter’s hand—offered for a handshake, because men didn’t hug—and hugged him anyway, and left. The whole cab ride to the station, and even long afterwards, though, his mind was not on the war he’d be joining in a country torn apart but the brokenness he’d left behind.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a headcanon that Edmund started boarding school a year earlier than any of the others and is the youngest in his grade; other than that, this was a bit of a fight, so I hope it's decent.


End file.
